


time's run out (but the constellation of us still burns)

by winterpolis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, He just wants Wanda back, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterpolis/pseuds/winterpolis
Summary: Sometimes he forgets she's gone.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	time's run out (but the constellation of us still burns)

**Author's Note:**

> hello, everyone! i haven't written the mcu in a while and i'm a little rough on the timeline of the movies, so do forgive me for any inconsistencies.
> 
> this was written on a whim and turned out longer than the drabble i intended. oh well.

There are days Steve goes to sleep empty and dreams of being whole.

In those dreams, Wanda is happy and alive and real, all vibrant red and warm—and  _ with him _ , still . He sees memories of the time they had and dreams of a time they would have and could have had. It always plays like a bittersweet montage, one that fills the ache of his lonely waking hours.

Behind shut eyes, he sees how stories of their pasts were carefully unpackaged from the mental boxes they'd been sealed in for years—stories they dared not share to another soul for so long, it felt like a lifetime's burdens were lifted off their chests the day their Pandora's boxes were opened. It was a tradition that began in one of their stakeouts and simply continued during the lulls in missions or in the wake of the occasional nightmare.

And it felt good, having someone who understood. It wasn't just sympathy or empathy, but knowledge from having lived through the same horrors and sorrows.

_ Sokovia, her parents, Pietro. Brooklyn, Bucky, Peggy._

A conversation with Natasha about shared life experiences feels so long ago now. But in Wanda's absence, it rings all the more true, yet again. How was he to find someone who inherently understood him the way she did? Nat and the other Avengers—those left of them, anyway—could come close, but not nearly close enough.

And so he retreats and finds solace in his dreams. He relives sparring sessions and tickle fights, the feel of her skin both smooth and scarred from a life endured. They spent countless evenings patching each other up while regaling the other with the history of the scars that mapped their skin.

_ A constellation of lifetimes _ , she'd said.  _ A constellation of the universe's points that led me to you, and you to me. A constellation of us._

It was romanticized and idealistic and sad, but it was still true and it was theirs. And that somehow made it okay. It didn't erase the weight or pain they carried, but it made it make sense, in its own twisted way.

He thinks it ironic, how so many of their scars were won by protecting those they love and those they swore to keep safe from dangers far too terrifying. But in the end, the physical scars were nothing compared to the emotional and mental ones that kept him up at night, the ones that remind him of all he's lost and can never get back.

Most nights, the past reels into a future he'd dreamt of, once upon a time. A future he'd given up on after Peggy, but one he'd reluctantly allowed himself to envision and desire once more after Wanda.

There would be a quaint home hidden from the city bustle, all nice and cozy, and all  _ theirs _ . It would have a sprawling backyard for all their friends to spread out on on barbecue nights, and an open door policy to anyone in the team who would need to get away, even just for a while.

The house would be filled with memories of their lives before and after each other—faces and places to go with the stories and scars, mementos and evidence of lives well and fully lived. There would be a library for the books she's acquired over the years, her thirst for knowledge ever growing. The walls would be littered with his art, paintings and sketches that stretch back for decades and grow in the daily. There would also be photographs: of them, of their friends...of their  family .

A boy with her bright eyes and a girl with his hair. They would have her smile and his charm, and they would be loved by all. Their house would be a home, and they would have made great parents.

_ You always wanted to be a father . _

Sometimes, he can hear her voice. It's been so long, but he can still remember the dips and lilts of her accented English, can still remember how it sounded when she was angry or sad or excited.

He can still remember when she said—

The visions of their future always fade into her last moments.

Of how one moment, he's watching Bucky crawl into nothingness, and the next, he's rushing to where he heard her cry out for him.

Of how he manages to clasp her hand, seconds before she starts to fade, and draw her close to him.

Of how their panicked eyes meet, and hers well up with their time running out.

_ Steve? _

**_ Don't go. Please. _ **

_ I love you, Stevie. _

**_ I love— _ **

He always wakes up with that one word completing the damned phrase on his lips.

He reaches out beside him, desperate for her comfort and assurance that it was all a dream. He shakes and hurts and breathes heavily—and his hands are always met with cold sheets and air.

For all the vividness of his dreams, sometimes he still forgets she's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> angsty feels inspired by this  
> https://clintnatalias.tumblr.com/post/184190134855/the-day-you-decide-its-over-its-over-you-never


End file.
